


Living With My Soulmate

by Wolf_dog



Category: Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Genre: M/M, Other World AU, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_dog/pseuds/Wolf_dog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lives on a different planet to ours in an alternate universe, and Sherlock is his soulmate (or, Blizren, as they call it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

John Watson lived on the planet of Glaznar, where it wasn’t odd to see a furry ear, or sharp canines, or a tail sticking out from someone’s pants, or scales on a person’s body, or even meeting someone that lived mostly in the ocean. Glaznar was a planet that was half water – the freshest, purist water in all the solar systems, a fact that the inhabitants prided themselves on – and half land, both forests and plains. In summer, Glaznar was the comfortable heat of around thirty degrees, and in winter the temperature dropped to below minus twenty-five degrees. They had two moons, and revolved around a single sun.

On Glaznar, everyone had some physical features of the animal they are most like, and the name of their soulmate (or _Blizren_ ) somewhere on their body. John had met someone with scales and a forked tongue, and it hadn’t taken him all that long to realise that they were part snake, and he had steered well clear of him. He didn’t like dishonest and sly people. He also knew someone that lived almost completely in the ocean. He liked her. She was nice. You couldn’t really go wrong with a fish.

John lived on the main island – Inicio. It was nice. Several large cities inhabited it, as well as dense forestlands and it was generally a nice place. 

John himself represented a dog. People had always described him as ‘fiercely loyal’ and ‘trusting’. He had floppy ears on top of his head (he didn’t like them all that much - they were rather embarrassing) that were the same light brown color as his fluffy tail. And, when he said fluffy, he meant it. It was ridiculous. The name ‘ _Sherlock Holmes’_ was written on the palm of his right hand in a neat cursive. He had not been in a rush to meet his soulmate – he knew he would find Sherlock Holmes eventually, and rushing and worrying would not bring him any closer.

On days when he was feeling sad or stressed, he would sit and just trace the name on his palm with his index finger of his left hand. It was slightly ticklish, but immensely soothing.

Some people were content to never find their soulmate, settled down and mated with someone else, and had a family. That was not the case for John. He knew he would never be able to settle down with someone unless it was his soulmate. The only person who could fully understand him. To understand his need for the thrill of danger. He would rather die along than be with someone who wasn’t his soulmate. Perhaps it was a bit extreme, but that was just how he felt.

Then, he had met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, with his black cat ears and sleek cat tail and piercing grey eyes and pale skin and that mop of curly black hair on his head. He had known – known on some instinctual level that not even he could work out – even before he had heard Sherlock’s name, that he was _the one_. His soulmate. His _Blizren._ It was strange, a cat and a dog, such opposite beings, but as Sherlock had glanced up at him with that cool gaze that had only lasted a second, he knew that he would gladly die – or kill – for him.

John had been embarrassed of his floppy ears immediately, as Sherlock’s gaze had lingered slightly on them, and had looked around the lab, his tail drooping slightly. His ears and tail were embarrassingly reactive to his emotions, and it was excruciatingly easy to tell what he was feeling – he had never been able to master the act of controlling them.

“So,” John had started, “I hear you’re in need of a flatmate.”

The sharp grin Sherlock flashed him gave John a glimpse of his teeth, and he had seen that Sherlock’s canines were extended and looked extremely sharp – just like that of a cat.

That simple smile – if one loosened their definition of ‘smile’ – had been enough for John. He was even further sucked in, completely entranced and he could immediately tell that living with Sherlock would bring no disappointments and plenty of adventure.

Just like that, he was Sherlock’s. Not that Sherlock knew it (or, at least, not quite yet), and that was fine with John. There was absolutely no rush. In time, he would tell Sherlock of the part-cat’s name on his palm, and he hoped that his name would be someone on that gorgeous body. Absolutely no rush at all.


	2. Chapter One

That had been months ago now, and John was thoroughly glad of the fact that he had run into Mike that day. Cats were generally antisocial creatures, and John had fully expected Sherlock to be as such, and had so been surprised when Sherlock had started to become … affectionate. Sometimes, it was annoying, like the times when John was trying to get something done, and Sherlock wanted his attention, and would steal whatever it was that John was trying to do, dump it on the floor and sit on John, press his nose under John’s chin and start talking about whatever it was he had wanted to tell John.

Sometimes, John liked Sherlock’s shows of affection, and would deliberately sit on the couch and watch crap Telly until Sherlock complained and forcefully turned it off, or joined him. Sherlock would lie with his head on John’s lap, either facing the Telly or facing John, and John would smile and gently scratch the base of one of Sherlock’s furry ears. If Sherlock got bored of being scratched and John didn’t realise and continued, or if John accidentally scratched too hard, or if he did something Sherlock didn’t like, Sherlock had absolutely no qualms with nipping sharply at whatever piece of flesh he saw first with those magnificently sharp canines the genius possessed.

Today was like that, except it was different. Sherlock had been in a foul mood all week. He hadn’t had a case at all, and Lestrade hadn’t been helpful in the slightest – telling Sherlock that he would ‘just have to wait,’ and not to ‘get his knickers in a twist, there was sure to be crime coming soon’, which had just sent Sherlock in a scary black silence, which had yet to be broken. That phone call had been two days ago, and John just wanted to break Sherlock out of it and get him back to normal – well, as normal as Sherlock got.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, head in John’s lap, facing John’s cream woolly jumper. John was watching some detective show, and was surprised Sherlock hadn’t commented on it yet, and absently scratching the base of one of Sherlock’s furry black ears. The flicking tail should have been the first thing that tipped him off. The second should have been Sherlock’s other ear – the one John wasn’t gently scratching – twisting back. But, as it was, he wasn’t paying attention to Sherlock (even though that was what this had been about to start with) and was fully engrossed in the show.

Sherlock batted John’s hand off of his head and captured it quickly, and John looked down, too late, as Sherlock bit him, eyes narrowed and icy as they focussed on John’s jumper. Except, this wasn’t one of Sherlock’s normal, sharp ‘stop’ or ‘don’t do that’ nips. This one was deeper, and drew blood as Sherlock’s sharp canines sunk into John’s wrist. Sherlock hadn’t seemed to notice that he was drawing blood, and John gave no indication of pain as he stared back down at Sherlock, making his face carefully blank. The bite only lasted for mere seconds, that both felt like forever and the blink of an eye, before Sherlock released him, and John didn’t spare a glance at his wrist (thankfully it was his left, and not his right, where Sherlock’s name was) as he stroked his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s eyes closed in content, and John allowed this for a few moments before he stood, ignoring Sherlock hiss of discontent, and turned off the Telly before he left the living room silently, ignoring the blood dripping down his wrist and down his palm, as he made his way to the bathroom, looking back at Sherlock only once, to find him curled up on the couch, back to John.

* * *

In the weeks that followed the incident, John took special care to not let Sherlock see his wrist. The bite was deep, and John was positive that it would scar, but he didn’t blame Sherlock. He was sure that Sherlock hadn’t done it on purpose, and he didn’t want to upset his flatmate.

Three weeks from when Sherlock had bit him, John could finally not wear bandages over it. It was healing nicely, even if it was still slightly red around the bite-marks. It was a warm day, and John had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, not really thinking, and had gone downstairs to make breakfast for both of them (he always tried to make Sherlock eat).

“Tea?” he called as he passed Sherlock’s form on the couch, and made his way to the kitchen.

He heard Sherlock roll over as he flicked on the kettle. “Yes,” Sherlock murmured, and something in his tone made John’s ears prick with interest as he turned.

John found Sherlock’s gaze locked onto his wrist, and he looked down at it with a slightly confused frown, before he realised that the bite-marks had been clearly visible to Sherlock. Oh, sod. His tail twitched uncomfortably as he tried to think of something that might distract Sherlock, but drew blanks.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked slowly, looking up to capture John in his piercing gaze, demanding the truth.

John hesitated. He didn’t want to upset Sherlock – he didn’t even know if it _would_ upset Sherlock, but he didn’t like to take chances with these kinds of things – but he knew that he couldn’t lie to Sherlock. Besides the fact that it was practically impossible, he didn’t like doing it.

John wrenched his gaze away and focussed on the tea, his tail twitching. He didn’t hear Sherlock approach, but suddenly found a gentle grip on his wrist, and found himself being turned, his heart pounding as Sherlock inspected his wrist. He knew the moment Sherlock connected the dots (precisely twenty seconds later) as the black ears flattened, and Sherlock’s tail puffed, whipping sharply back and forth as Sherlock suddenly let go of John as if he had been burnt, and started to pace, agitatedly running his hands through his curly hair.

“When?” Sherlock asked simply, his head turning but he continued to pace, his fierce grey eyes ablaze with anger. Whether it was anger at John for not telling him, or anger at himself for biting John that deeply, John wasn’t sure.

“A few weeks ago,” John admitted, leaning back against the counter and silently watching Sherlock, slightly anxious. “You were in one of your black mood. Weren’t talking.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock sounded almost upset. Almost. Just a faint tremor through his voice that notified John to Sherlock’s emotional state. He’d learnt to read Sherlock’s subtle tells and signs, and he was sure that no one – not even Lestrade – would have noticed the tremor in the consulting detective’s voice.

John shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Sherlock let out a low hiss, suddenly visibly angry as he stalked over to John. He grabbed John’s wrist and held it up as he kept his gaze, angry and intent, on John’s blue eyes as he spat, “ _This_ will scar. It will be there forever, and _I_ caused it. It _is_ a big deal, John!”

Then, he whirled around and left the flat, the door slamming shut behind him as John stood in shock, ears drooping.

So. He had been right, then. It _had_ upset Sherlock. Quite a bit, it seemed. Tea forgotten, John quickly made his way across the living room and peered out the window, anxious for a glimpse of Sherlock wanting – no, needing – to know that Sherlock was alright and wasn’t going to do something stupid. Sherlock was standing across the road from the flat, hands in his coat, and then he turned and looked up at John, his face worryingly blank, before he turned with a swish of his long coat and a flick of his tail and stalked away. It seemed like, to John, that Sherlock had been waiting for him to look out the window. John was immensely grateful, as he liked knowing that Sherlock was alright.

* * *

Sherlock didn’t return home before John retired to bed. John had made Sherlock’s favourite dinner in a sort-of apology on the off chance that Sherlock would both return and want to eat. When John was getting sleepy and Sherlock hadn’t yet returned, John wrapped up the plate of curry and put it in the fridge, putting a post-it note on the gladwrap, informing Sherlock that it was for him if he was hungry, and then showered, brushed his teeth and slipped into his bed wearing only his sleeping pants and his dog-tags.

* * *

John half-woke, his body immediately on alert, floppy ears pricked and body tensed, as he felt a dip in his single bed.

His eyes opened, and he turned to look around, when a freezing foot came into contact with his thigh, and he gave a gasp, shivering. Whoever it was, they were  _freezing_. John made a questioning noise, ready to attack if it was a threat (yet, he didn’t think it was) in the darkness of his room.

“Hush,” a soothing, deep voice murmured into his ear as a body (only slightly warmer than that of the foot) settled against his back, an arm wrapping around his middle and pressing him firmly against the long, lean body behind him,  “Go back to sleep, my precious _Blizren_ , it’s just me.”

John’s eyes fell closed immediately, body and ears relaxing and his tail moved out of the way so that it was resting on Sherlock’s leg instead, and he heard Sherlock’s comforting low purr as he fell into a blissful sleep for the first time in a long whil


	3. Chapter Two

John woke briefly just after dawn, a soft light shimmering in through the window underneath his curtains, as the warmth behind him started to leave his bed. He gave a soft grumble that ended up as a questioning whine, tail curling to try and keep his _Blizren_ in bed with him without otherwise moving or opening his eyes. He was gently shushed in a soft tone that he was unaccustomed to, but rather liked it, as it made him his nice and warm inside, and was told to go back to sleep as a soft hand gently stroked the side of his face.

He gave a sleepy smile and easily slipped back into sleep.

* * *

When he next woke, this time properly, the bed behind him was cold and, if it had not been for the fact that he could smell Sherlock in his bed, he would have been convinced that he had made up the whole thing. Rolling over to look at the clock, he found that it was seven am. Just like it always was when he fully woke, a habit he hadn’t been able to shake, no matter what. Unless he was dead or dying or seriously ill, he doubted that he’d ever be able to sleep in past seven am.

Yawning and stretching out, his tail flicked and a happy, content smile made its way onto his face. Sherlock had never crept into (or even been in) his bed before. He’d had the best sleep he could remember with Sherlock curled up behind him.

His memories from during the night were fuzzy, and all he could remember was waking up and Sherlock slipping into his bed. After that - nothing. Just a warm feeling that something good had happened.

Shrugging and deciding that it didn’t matter too much, and that if it did, Sherlock was likely to bring it up.

He rolled out of bed, not able to stay in and laze about now that his mind was fully awake, and padded out of his room to go have a nice hot shower – one of the many things he hadn’t been able to do while he was in the army, and thoroughly enjoyed – taking a change of clothes with him so that there would be no chance of awkward run-ins in the hallway with Sherlock.

* * *

After a deeply satisfying shower, John emerged, feeling clean and refreshed and definitely awake.

By the time he made his way into the kitchen for tea and breakfast, it was half past seven. Sherlock was sitting on his usual chair, knees folded to his chest and hands in his usual thinking pose, eyes closed. John didn’t disturb him, instead paused for a moment with a small smile before he went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle started preparing his breakfast (toast with jam). He made tea for Sherlock too (it was likely that Sherlock would drink it after he pulled himself out of his head) and after his toast was sufficiently lathered with jam, he made his way into the living room, and placed Sherlock’s cup in front of him on the coffee table. Sherlock’s ears flicked in acknowledgement, but he didn’t otherwise move.

John settled on his own arm chair (in his opinion, his chair was way more comfy than the one Sherlock seemed to like. It was nice and soft, whilst Sherlock was all hard edges) and ate his breakfast, not feeling the need to talk. Sherlock was in his head, his tail flicking and ears moving agitatedly occasionally, and John didn’t want to pull him out of it. There was no need for small talk, or even talking at all. John liked the silence as much as he liked Sherlock’s affection and, well, Sherlock in general really. Sure, he got annoyed at the git sometimes, but Sherlock was his _Blizren_ and John knew for a fact that he was already slowly falling in love with the consulting detective.

A while later, as John was curled up with his book on the sofa, after he’d washed his dishes, Sherlock broke out from his head. John didn’t notice at first, but his ears pricked (as much as floppy ears can) as he heard Sherlock getting up from his chair. He lowered his book and looked up at Sherlock as Sherlock stood. He was surprised as Sherlock simply crossed the distance between them and lowered himself onto the couch, his head resting in John’s lap and closed his eyes again, resuming his position. For once, it hadn’t been John’s intention to end up like this. He switched his book to his right hand – it was slightly awkward for him to hold it like this, being left-handed as he was, but not too bad and he could manage – and his left hand went immediately to Sherlock’s ears.

“Not the ears,” Sherlock told him, not opening his eyes, voice hardly more than that of a murmur.

John felt a flash of surprise, but didn’t argue, instead running his hand through Sherlock’s dark curls gently as he continued to read his book. He knew that, soon, he’d have to get up and go to work, but a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

When John finished the chapter in his book, he used his thumb to slide in the bookmark, and put it down. He needed to go, or he was going to be late for work.

“No,” Sherlock said, not moving or even opening his eyes.

John sighed. He was well used to Sherlock knowing these kinds of things, even when he was focussed on other things. His fingers stilled in Sherlock’s hair. “I have to go to work, Sherlock,” John said gently.

Sherlock’s ears flicked in annoyance. “No.”

“I can’t just not go to work, Sherlock,” John said with slight annoyance. “My jobs helps us pay bills and for the groceries.”

Sherlock frowned, his ears flattening and tail twitching with obvious irritability. “ _No_ ,” Sherlock repeated, firmer.

John checked his watch. He was really cutting it fine. He needed to leave. Now. “Sherlock,” he said, warning in his tone.

Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he glared up at John. John met his gaze with a scowl, his own tail flicking. He could just stand up, of course, and Sherlock would just have to deal, but he knew himself well enough to know that if his _Blizren_ pretended to be hurt or ill, he would stay home.

Sherlock rolled over so that his face was pressed against John’s jumper and closed his eyes. “Please, John,” Sherlock whispered, a hand clutching at John’s jumper.

John’s determination wavered. He was such a sucker. He knew it. Sherlock knew it. But John had to go to work, even though Sherlock saying please was rare enough as it was. He sighed. “I can’t,” he told Sherlock softly, “Sarah won’t let me take another sick day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave a soft hiss of displeasure, tail flicking angrily, just as he always did every time when John mentioned Sarah. The jealousy, however unneeded, was kind of sweet, and he knew that it was a sign that Sherlock cared. John stroked a hand gently through Sherlock’s hair, tenderly brushing a finger over Sherlock’s furry ears briefly, before he pulled away. As (oh-so-extremely) tempting it was to just stay here with Sherlock, he couldn’t.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled, “I don’t feel well. Please don’t leave me on my own.”

John’s determination wavered into almost nothing. His eyes scanned down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock was curling inwards towards John, tail resting over Sherlock’s stomach, ears twisting in a show of discomfort, his hand clenched in John’s jumper and eyes shut.

John frowned with worry. Sherlock certainly _looked_ unwell… “What kind of ‘don’t feel well’?” John asked cautiously.

Sherlock gave a quiet, pitiful, mewl. “My tummy, John. It _aches_.”

John glanced at his watch once more. Work didn’t matter if Sherlock really _was_ sick. But, if Sherlock was faking just to get John to stay home (he had done that in the past and John had only realised this once Sherlock hadn’t seemed to be sick at all once John had called in sick), than he _really_ couldn’t risk taking another sick day.

John stroked a hand through Sherlock’s hair once more, contemplating. Stroking Sherlock’s hair was almost soothing to him, and most of the time he didn’t realise that he was doing so. “I really can’t get off of work, Sherlock,” he said softly, looking down at Sherlock. “Take a nap and _eat_ something, and if you still feel ill at …” he paused for a moment, thinking, “eleven, then text me and I’ll come back, okay?”

Sherlock took in a deep breath. “I don’t want you to leave,” Sherlock said quietly, and peeked up at John through his lashes.

John gave a small smile. “I know. But I have to go.” Then, before he actually ended up staying, he patted Sherlock’s head once more, and then gently lifted Sherlock’s head from his lap and stood, gently lowering his _Blizren’s_ curly head back down onto the couch.

Sherlock didn’t protest, thought it was with obvious reluctance that he let go of John’s jumper and let his hand flop back onto the couch.  He rolled over to face John, staring up at him silently, ears pricked and listening to every one of John’s breaths. “Get me a blanket, then, before you leave?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Of course,” John said with a soft smile, turning to go to Sherlock’s bedroom to fetch him a blanket, but stopped in confusion when Sherlock called out to him again.

“One of _your_ blankets, John,” Sherlock amended his earlier statement.

John’s ears pricked, slightly confused, but he nodded anyway and trekked up the stairs to his bedroom to fetch (just like the loyal dog that he was) a blanket off of his bed. He came back downstairs with his armful to find Sherlock already asleep (or, at least pretending to be), and his tail wagged happily, but he was still concerned. If Sherlock was _sleeping_ than he had to be sick. He’d wait and see, he consoled himself as he tucked the blanket around Sherlock’s still form and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. If Sherlock texted, he’d come back.

* * *

The clinic was packed today, and John hardly had a break between patients. Most were just minor things (or a kid trying to get out of school) but there were some serious cases that put a damper on his mood. At precisely eleven am, John’s phone dinged. He was in the middle of trying to tell a mother, with the ears and tail of a fox, that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her son, who didn’t have a marking of any kind that John could see. Sherlock’s ringtone was the only contact on his phone that pinged, so he knew who it was. Taking a quick glance at his watch, he felt half-amused that Sherlock had texted _exactly_ at eleven, half-worried about what the text might say.

Finally, he interrupted the mother. “Listen. He’s not sick. Probably just trying to get out of school. Go home, feed him some soup, make him go to sleep, and come back tomorrow if he still says he’s sick,” he told her, slightly exasperated.

She finally quietened. “Alright,” she said quietly, and left the room to go join her son in the waiting room.

Rolling his eyes, John went over to his chair and sat down. It was odd, he thought, that after arguing for so long, she had just given up like that. Brushing it off, he dug his phone out of his pocket and checked the message.

_Please come home. Not well. SH_

John frowned down at his phone, worried. He hurriedly packed up all his stuff, grabbed his coat and hurried out of his office, phone in hand. He rushed past Sarah and the receptionist. “Sorry, I’m off,” he said without pausing, ignoring her protests.

_On my way. Try not to throw up all over my blanket, yeah? –JW_

It was minutes before the reply, and John was already in a cab by then, tail flicking anxiously.

_No promises. Please hurry John. SH_

John couldn’t make the cab go any faster, and he was anxious and fidgety. At least Sherlock had responded, he tried to soothe himself. It wasn’t really working.

* * *

By the time John got home, he was worried. He could just _feel_ that there was something wrong. He fumbled with the key as he took it from his pocket and shoved it into the front door, his tail swishing from side to side. There was a strange smell in the air, he realised as he made his way into their flat.

Sherlock wasn’t in the living room when John made his way up the stairs, and a flash of panic shot through him, his right hand curling into a fist, nails lightly touching Sherlock’s name inscribed there. He stood still and took in deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone.

Sherlock’s scent was still strong in the flat, so he had to still be here. He checked Sherlock’s room first, but he wasn’t there. In fact, it didn’t smell like he’d been in there at all today. Frowning slightly, John made the way to his own room, letting out a relieved sigh as he saw Sherlock curled up on his bed. He bee-lined his way over to his _Blizren_ and was startled to find Sherlock awake.

He was a pasty white colour, which did not sit well with John, his pupils were dilated, breathing fast, a feverish temperature and, when John checked his pulse he found it to be racing. This wasn’t sickness. Sherlock stared up at him, looking almost helpless, and John froze with shock as the dots connected.

“Sherlock, you’re high!”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so another story! :) Feedback would really be appreciated as I'm not really sure how I feel about this at the moment...


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